. . .
Lily Jenkins
The next day, Dante was pale. I didn't know what was wrong. Someone had visited last night after I went to bed. I had seen a man exit from a dark car.
I didn't want to ask him what was wrong.
But it was hard not to.
He set down breakfast in front of me, on the counter, and sat down opposite me. His food was lesser than usual. He ate slower than usual. He didn't look at me like he usually did.
When we had eaten, I couldn't stop. "Dante."
He looked at me. Even his eyes looked a little more lost. "Yes?"
"I..." I drummed my fingers on the counter. "Are you okay?"
He froze and then slowly as if it took a second for him to understand the words I had said, he nodded. "I am alright, Blue."
"Do you have to go to work today?"
He frowned. "I don't think I have many important things to do," he said.
"Then, maybe, you should rest a little more," I muttered. "Sleep for a few hours."
He cracked a smile. "I am fine."
"You look pale."
"I am pale."
"No, you're not," I muttered. "Your skin is sort of...golden."
He raised his eyebrows. "Golden?"
"I don't know how to explain it," I said.
"Aren't you a writer?"
"You're being mean."
He chuckled, sipping water. "Mean, hm?"
I shook my head, standing up and picking up our plates. He usually did it but I just didn't want him to move when he looked like he might pass out.
I put the plates away, washing my hands. He kept sitting but I felt his eyes on me.
I kept my back to him, took in a deep breath, and then turned.
His eyes clashed with mine. It was always like that when I looked at him. A moment of caution, as if I was gasping for breath, and then stillness I couldn't explain.
He stood slowly. "I can't sleep more," he said. "I can't sleep more than two hours a day."
I nodded, rubbing my arms up and down. "Then I guess you'd get bored here."
"Do you get bored?"
I nodded after a pause. "When you're not here."
He looked almost..sad at that. "How can I remedy that?"
I shrugged. "It's nothing. I find something to do." Write. Poke around the house which never resulted in anything good. Go through the pantry and eat anything which looked delicious.
He shook his head, walking closer. "How can I remedy that?" He repeated his question.
I thought about it.
. . .
"I will pay."
"I want to throw your card away," he said honestly, taking the book from my hands and lowering it in the cart.
I huffed in return, handing him another book. "I will pay," I repeated.
"I want to throw your card away," he repeated, looking down at me. "And I will if you try to pay."
"I don't have an option when it comes to money?" I half-mocked.
He shrugged. "You can pay for..." He frowned. "Some things."
"Like?"
"We'll discuss it later," he dismissed the question and then paused, his eyes freezing somewhere.
I followed his gaze.
And my heart jumped.
My books.
I let out a breath.
The Crying Crown
I started writing it when I was fifteen and knee-deep in depression. The first book helped me through it when it blew up, the motivation came from the reviews. In six years I wrote five books, and then it all stopped.
He picked up a box set up, putting it down in my cart.
"What are you doing?"
He shrugged. "I'd like to read."
"What? No-"
"Why not?" He asked.
I shrugged, picking up the box set and putting it back on the shelf. "You wouldn't like it!"
He put it back in the cart. "You have no idea what I like, Blue," he said and pushed the cart away before I could question what exactly he meant.
I followed him. This bookstore was large. As soon as I ended I felt like raiding it all.
Instead, I grabbed a cart and pretended to be civil.
"I need The Wheel of Time," I said. "And Jane Austen. I need her. And I need To-" I paused. "I think we have enough."
He looked down at me. "You think a few books which make a dent in my bank account?"
"I don't want to spend your money. I am living in your house, I should be giving you rent!"
He took in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second. "If you were mine," he said slowly, holding his head down to look me in the eyes. "I would have made you regret saying that."
Before I could ask him what that meant, he filled the cart with every book I glanced at and refused to let me put even one back.
"You're being mean."
"I don't care." He paid for the books, pulled out a sleek black card, and took my card from my hand as soon as I took it out and pocketed it.
I kept the yelling in as we were billed and when we were out, I turned towards him and glared at his stupidly gorgeous face.
"My card." I held my hand out.
He put his card on my palm.
"Dante, I swear to-"
"Do you want to eat something?" He asked. "It's lunchtime. I am hungry." He handed the books to the man who had driven us here and said something to him in Italian.
. . .
(1/5)